CHAPTER 147 — A MOTHER'S PATH
The storm had broken into scattered rain by the time the X-Men gathered again inside the battered farmhouse that served as their makeshift base. The roof dripped. The floor smelled of wet boots and gun oil. Tension, thicker than the humidity, pressed in on all of them.
Colossus leaned heavy against a wooden beam that groaned under his weight, his armored hands clasped in frustration. "He is… like smoke. We cannot hold him, cannot strike him. Even I—" He flexed his steel fingers, the metal squealing softly, "—I feel useless."
Nightcrawler, perched awkwardly on the back of a chair, his tail twitching with agitation, gave a sharp-toothed grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Mein freund, if it helps, you look very impressive while feeling useless."
"Not the time, elf," Logan muttered from where he crouched by the window, a cigar stub wet between his teeth. He sniffed, wrinkled his nose at the damp air. "Still got his stink out there. Like burnt copper and bile. But he's slippery. Ain't lingerin' long enough for me to pin it."
Banshee paced with restless energy, running a hand through his wet hair. "We're chasin' shadows. Proteus keeps runnin', bendin' the world, and we're always two steps behind. We can't keep this up."
Cyclops staggered back into the room then, one hand pressed against his stomach where Moira's rifle butt had found him. His face was pale, jaw set hard. The others turned at once.
"Scott?" Storm stepped forward, concern cutting through her usual regal composure.
"I'm fine," he lied, his voice sharp as he straightened. "Moira's gone after him. Alone."
A silence dropped like a weight.
"Alone?!" Havok shot up from the sofa, fists already crackling with plasma. "She knows what he is! She knows what he can do!"
"She also knows him better than anyone," Jean said quietly. She had been silent until now, her green eyes closed as if straining against something. Her voice trembled. "I can… feel her. The fear. The anger. It's pulling her somewhere."
Logan's head snapped toward her. "You can track her?"
Jean nodded slowly, fingertips brushing her temple. "Not her exactly. But the emotion—raw, jagged. It's… maternal, desperate. She's heading for him, but not to stop him. To warn someone."
Storm's brow furrowed. "Who?"
Jean's eyes opened, troubled. "Her husband."
Nightcrawler blinked, cocking his head. "Husband? She has a—"
"Joseph McTaggart," Cyclops cut in, bitterness in his tone. "A politician. Cold as stone. The man who—" He stopped himself, eyes narrowing behind his visor. "That's where she's going."
---
Moira's car screeched to a halt in front of the stone-faced mansion that squatted on the cliff's edge. She sat behind the wheel, knuckles white on the rifle. Her stomach was a fist of dread. She had left this place long ago. Left him. But she hadn't left alone.
The door creaked as she stepped inside. The air was thick with expensive whiskey and the faint stench of old rage.
Joseph McTaggart looked older, broader around the waist, but his eyes were the same. Cold, entitled, sharp enough to cut. He turned when he heard her steps, disbelief cracking across his face.
"Moira," he spat, as if the name itself was poison. "After all these years, you think you can just—" His gaze dropped to the rifle in her hands. "What in God's name are you playing at?"
She lifted her chin, voice raw but firm. "Joseph. You need to listen. He's coming here."
Joseph laughed, a bitter bark. "Who? Your mutant friends? Did they finally tire of your little charity case?"
Her throat clenched, but she forced the words out. "I didn't leave here alone. The day I left you, I carried more than my suitcase. I carried your child."
The words hit him like a blow. His face went red, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping on the pier. "My—what?" His voice broke into a roar. "You hid this from me for twenty bloody years?!"
Moira's voice shook, but her grip on the rifle stayed firm. "I hid him from you because you're cruel. Because you'd have broken him before he even learned to walk. Because he deserved better than to be raised under your roof."
Joseph surged forward, rage blotting out reason. "You lying witch—" He raised a hand, the old instinct to strike flaring up—
But Moira raised the rifle in one smooth motion, eyes burning with something harder than fear.
Joseph froze, staring at the barrel inches from his chest.
"You'll not lay a hand on me ever again," she whispered.
For a moment, only the sound of their ragged breathing filled the room.
Then she lowered the rifle and turned, her shoulders trembling as she forced herself toward the door.
Behind her, Joseph's voice thundered with wounded pride. "You can't keep him from me! He's my son! Do you hear me, Moira?! He's MINE!"
She didn't look back.
---
Outside, rain still fell in silver sheets. Moira climbed back into her car, chest heaving, tears mixing with the rain on her cheeks. She gripped the steering wheel, staring into the night.
She never noticed the shadow seeping through the cracks of Joseph's mansion.
Inside, Proteus smiled as he slid into his father's body. The man's fury, his arrogance, his rotten core—it was like sinking into warm water.
Joseph McTaggart ceased to be.
Proteus stepped outside, wearing his father's flesh like a crown. Reality bent around him, the street twisting like taffy, the car warping as Moira's eyes widened in horror.
And at that same moment, far down the road, Jean gasped, clutching her head. "Oh God. He's there. With her."
The X-Men sprang to their feet, resolve hardening.
Cyclops raised his hand, his voice steady even through the weight of dread. "Let's move. Now."